Spearhead @ Toad's Place

I have been listening to Michael Franti since I was a teenager. Shortly after I was given my first CD player, I went out to Flat, Black, and Circular and found a copy of The Disposable Heroes of HipHoprisy in their used disk section. I had been listening to many of the Native Tongues Posse artists, and I was looking for more underground or authentic hip hop. I had grown weary of the pop hip hop I ingested during my adolescence. You can only eat so much MC Hammer and Kid n Play before your whole digestive system throws a tizzy.

The Disposable Heroes was intriguing, though. I have always followed my ear and heart in selecting music. I am fearless about buying a new album—even more so today with the accessibility of digital music. When I hunkered down in my room at home and put the album on, I was mesmerized. Franti was talking about a reality I had heard about in the rage of gangsta and black power rap. I had listened to NWA and Public Enemy, but I couldn’t get behind them. I completely respected their need to shout to the world in the name of justice. I would never deny them that right, but I couldn’t stand behind the ojectification of women in NWA’s rhymes, and Public Enemy’s call for revolution was too much to comprehend at my young age.

But The Disposable Heroes pealed away the layers of injustice in our country in a way that felt like a civics lesson. I had been listening to rap since I was in elementary school. I started out on doses of RUN DMC and The Fat Boys. I loved the poetry and rhythm of the genre, and Franti’s album finally woke me up to hip hop’s power of prophecy. I was convicted by Television, The Drug of the Nation, and my blood boiled each time I listened to Hypocrisy is the Greatest Luxury. I can look back now and see how this album began to reform my suburban, country view of the world. What a gift.

A couple years later the music director of my college radio station handed me Spearhead’s first album, Home. I hadn’t realized Franti had moved on to a new project. His tone had changed, but the prophetic voice still resonated in Hole in the Bucket and Crime to be Broke in America. These songs were tempered with lovely tunes about those in the midst of the struggle. Peace O’ Peace and Red Beans & Rice reminded me that it is not healthy to sit in the frustration of injustice all the time. It was obvious that Franti had managed to come to terms with some of his anger in the last couple years.

I have been following Spearhead ever since, and Franti’s lyrics, love, and integrity are an important part of the healing I have found after walking away from ministry and the church. Beth and I went to see Michael Franti and Spearhead on Thursday night at Toad’s Place. It was the first time we’ve seen him live. For a week before the show, we were so excited that we would look at each other and giggle. At the same time, I was worried. We went to a handful of shows this summer where the crowd was so out of it that the artists were visibly distracted and couldn’t find their groove. We wanted this experience to be different. Thankfully, it was.

On Stay Human’s title track, Franti declares that “all the freaky people make the beauty of the world,” and, as one of the freaky people, I was at home in Toad’s Place. I looked around at a truly diverse crowd that was happy to be together. To our left stood a gray-haired couple completely at home with the young folks around them. Ahead of us was a group of teenage girls with glow-in-the-dark necklaces chatting excitedly. Near them was a mother with her five year old daughter—sporting a pair of headphones that made her look like a junior Princes Lea--on her shoulders. Punks, Deadheads, dreadheads, frat boys, flowerchildren. It was as if the margin that circles our society was completed in that room.

Blue King Brown, a jam band from Australia, opened the show. Their energy and interaction with the crowd made them the best opening band I have ever seen. Natalie Pa’apa’a walked the stage with a strength I wish all women possessed. She was backed by a band that matched her intensity note for note. I have to point out their percussionist, Salvador Persico, who left me standing in awe several times throughout the show. I’ve decided we need to buy a house so I can sound-proof our garage and start an all percussion band.

Micheal Franti came to the stage around ten and proceeded to play for three hours. He never stopped to preach. He simply played his music. There were moments where I was brought to tears by the overwhelming feeling of community in the club. To hear all voices chanting or singing with conviction is a witness to the sacredness found in all music. Towards the end of the show, Franti asked a guard to put a ten-year-old boy in the front row on stage. Franti was playing Light Up Ya Lighter and he lowered the mic stand to the boy and stepped back. The kid knew every word, sang it without at hitch, and the crowd responded in kind. It had to be a defining moment for him. For those of us in the crowd, it was the manifestation of the old saying, “Hope springs eternal.” Seeing a boy with such a strong connection to music focused on peace, love, and justice made my heart gush.

We stuck around after the show to see if we could meet Michael. I really wanted to thank him, and I had been rehearsing what I would say for a few days. My desire to say the right thing was not based on a need to feel cool or accepted around him. I just wanted to make sure I conveyed my gratitude in a way that had meaning. We waited in line for about twenty minutes. It was obvious that he was exhausted. When I finally surfaced at the front of the line, I handed him a children’s book he had recently published and, as he signed the title page, said, “I was this country kid and I bought your first Disposible Heroes of HipHopracy album and everything changed.” He smiled as he signed the book. I continued, “I have been following you for a long time, and I want to thank you for sharing your journey with me.” He looked up and closed the book.

“Thanks," he responded, "What’s your name?”

“Jim”

“Jim,” he extended his hand, “I’m Michael. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I replied. I then introduced Beth, and she stepped right up and hugged him. He was glowing. WE were glowing. We asked for a crappy cell phone picture, thanked him again, and said goodbye.

As we walked up to Cary Street, neither of us could mask our joy. I was able to express my gratitude to a man whose work had such a profound influence on my life, AND (probably just as important) he freely and sincerely accepted it. How often do we get (or give) both of these things in an encounter? I know I have a hard time accepting the praise of others. I often deflect it with a self-deprecating comment. I’m afraid I’ll come off as conceited or egotistic. This is such an illogical way of thinking, though. It would be one thing to praise myself (which can easily come off as conceited), but when someone else says it, I should receive it with gratitude. This is definately something to work on in the years to come. Once again, Michael Franti managed to teach me something without being preachy or pushy. He was just being himself.